I’ve always been a sucker for biker boys. Most of them share the same irresistible characteristics: tall and tan, dark curly hair, and arms adorned with colorful tattoos. Maybe it’s the air of danger they carry, like an accessory they wear as naturally as leather, or the quiet calm that follows them, like they’ve seen a little too much of the world. Whatever it is, I’m enchanted every time. I know they’re way out of my league, but a girl can dream.

So, imagine my surprise when a 6’2” hottie, dressed head-to-toe in leather with a piercing green gaze, strolled into my favorite tea shop. I still remember the day I first saw him, how my hand slipped, sending sakura milk tea spilling all over my jeans, dyeing the fabric a faint, milky pink. He laughed, offering me a handful of napkins, and his smile seared itself into my memory.

I wanted to ask for his name, maybe even his number, but my shy nature kept me rooted to the spot. I didn’t feel like I was his type—guys like him want beautiful, fierce women who match their confidence and charm. I’m just me, a little clumsy and far too aware of it. Four weeks passed, and though I saw him at the tea shop nearly every day, I never spoke to him. But today, something inside me pushed me forward, a surge of courage I couldn’t explain.

I walked up to him, heart pounding, and with all the strength I could gather, told him the truth that had been lingering on my lips for weeks.

The silence that followed stretched on, each second an eternity as I stood there, vulnerable and exposed. His expression softened as he rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a chuckle that sounded more gentle than amused. “Thank you for saying that,” he said, and for a second, hope flared within me. He even called me beautiful, surprising me. But then his voice dropped, almost as if he wished it didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry…but there’s someone else I’m interested in. I’m waiting for them, you see.” His lips curved into a polite smile, but I could see the sadness in his eyes, a look I knew too well. It was the same quiet ache I carried—the weight of loving someone just out of reach.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I returned his smile, nodding my head in understanding. “Good luck,” I whispered, hoping he’d find the happiness I couldn’t bring him. And as I walked out of the shop, my vision blurred, tears slipping free despite my best efforts to keep them at bay.